‘Oh, no,’ says Beatrice, ‘that won’t do at all. Why would I want a chiropodist as a nurse? And where did Nessa go? She didn’t say goodbye …’
‘Nessa’s not gone anywhere, Granny,’ says Tilly. ‘She’ll be here at ten.’
‘So I have two nurses now …?’ she muses.
‘She’s not a nurse, Granny,’ says Rufus. ‘She’s my wife.’
‘Nonsense,’ says Beatrice.
‘Not nonsense. We got married a couple of weeks ago.’
A flirtatious wag of the index finger. ‘Ah, now I know you’re teasing me,’ she says. ‘We didn’t have a wedding two weeks ago. Our last wedding was Tilly’s.’
‘I’m not a chiropodist …’ I say lamely.
‘Chiropodist … oh, sorry, darling, pedicurist,’ says Mary.
‘Oh, fantastic,’ says Tilly. ‘I’d kill for a trim and a coat of nail-varnish. I haven’t seen my feet in months.’
‘Where is Hugo, anyway, darling?’ asks Beatrice, suddenly.
‘Um … Burundi, as far as I know,’ says Tilly. Evidently Granny’s being kept in the dark like the rest of the county.
‘What’s he doing in Burundi?’
‘Business,’ she says.
‘I’d have thought he’d be here with his wife,’ says Beatrice, ‘waiting for their first baby.’
‘Yes, well, he’s not,’ says Tilly bluntly.
‘A woman’s place is by her husband’s side,’ proclaims Beatrice in the manner of one repeating poetry learned by rote.
‘Yes, well,’ says Tilly, ‘I’m afraid the global marketplace doesn’t really allow for those sorts of pieties any more. I’m going to go and have a bath.’
She lumbers to her feet and stands there rubbing the small of her back. ‘It’s lovely to have you here, Melody.’
‘Likewise,’ I say.
‘I was thinking,’ says Mary, when Tilly has left. Wonders will never cease. ‘I think I should give Melody a bit of a debrief on what she’s taken on this morning. Would you like that?’
Oh, Gawd. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘thanks. That would be really helpful.’
‘Great idea,’ says Rufus. ‘Thanks, Ma. That’s really kind of you.’
My eyes are rolling so hard at him that I think they’ll fall out of my head. Jesus, what is it with men?
‘Tell you what,’ he says, ‘I think I should probably get up to that roof as soon as possible. Ma, did that plastic sheeting we ordered come, at all?’
‘Yes, it’s in the stables,’ says Mary.
‘Ah, great,’ he says, pushing his plate away and standing up. ‘Right. That’s it. I’m off.’
As he passes my chair, he puts a hand round the back of my neck and kisses me on the forehead in that irritating brotherly fashion that men all seem to reserve for showing affection to their wives in front of the rellies. With a jolt, I realise that this is the first time he’s ever done this. Even in front of the Marijas, with their monobrows and the metaphorical mantillas strapped about their heads, he was relaxed with his hand-holding and waist-squeezing, dropping casual kisses without thought on to my lips as he passed. Now, it seems, I’ve undergone a magical transformation into a twelve-year-old with no tits, clompy shoes and a pair of rubber-band-held pigtails sprouting horizontally out of the sides of my head.
‘I’ll see you later, my love,’ he says. ‘Don’t let her wear you out, now, will you?’
I reach up and pat the hand. ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I lie.
The three Mrs Wattestones hold their poses as he leaves the room, all of us smiling like waxworks, no-one willing to let the façade slip until the door closes. I’m not sure what’s in store next.
I find out, double-quick. Mary gets to her feet, picks up some abandoned plates. ‘I’m going to make a couple of phone calls,’ she says, ‘and do a bit of admin.’
The cordial tone has slipped right away now that there’s no-one but senile old Beatrice to hear. ‘If you would sit with Beatrice until the nurse arrives … I’m sure you can manage that without too many mishaps. There are a couple of the brochures we keep for the tourists on the windowsill over there. If you read that, I’m sure you’ll know more than you need to.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘I dare say you won’t be here long enough for a deeper grounding,’ she tosses over her shoulder as she leaves the room.
Beatrice’s bright button eyes study me as I click my jaw back into place. Steady, I think: keep the appearances going. I turn and smile at her.
‘I think there’s something you should know,’ she says.
‘What’s that, Mrs Wattestone,’ I ask.
‘The doctor says I’m not allowed any more gin,’ she says confidingly. ‘But my normal nurse usually pops a little in my milk at elevenses.’
Chapter Twenty
Welcome to Bourton Allhallows
Welcome to Bourton Allhallows, home of the Callington-Warbeck-Wattestone family since 932. I do a double take here, before I understand that the printers haven’t missed a digit off the date. The leaflet is printed on the sort of hard, shiny paper you find in cheap motel bathrooms. In fact, it’s the sort of paper you find in the bathrooms at Bourton Allhallows. Whatever else goes on today, I’m going to be visiting the shops for essential supplies at some point.
We hope you enjoy your visit to our house, says the brochure. Please remember that this is still our family home, and treat it accordingly.
History: Bourton Allhallows and the Wattestone family are first recorded in the parish records of Wednesford and Sidbury, when Edmund Wattestone donated land and materials for the construction of a church in the Sidbury valley. The Allhallows estate was at the time little more than a large, lightly fortified farmhouse built on early Saxon foundations in an estate of some thirty virgates. The castle wall, or bailey, that can be seen today was certainly in situ at this time. The moat was added (by diverting the course of the Bourton river) in 1273-8 and the estate is recorded again in the Domesday book. The main source of income in the area at the time was wool, and it seems that the family were farmers on a large scale.
Sheep farmers. I’ve married a sheep farmer. Might as well have stayed at home.
The estate was enlarged when Rufus Wattestone married Anne Callington, sole heiress of a neighbouring landowner, in 1515; her estates were joined to the Wattestone land in exchange for the adjuncture of her surname. The family’s landholdings further increased when they converted from Catholicism in 1538, benefiting, coincidentally, from the dissolution of the Sidbury Priory. Many of the main public rooms of the house date from this period. The family reconverted in the reign of Mary I, then settled into Protestant life under Elizabeth I, successfully maintaining good relations with both sides throughout the Civil War and Interregnum.
The direct Callington-Wattestone line of descent died out in 1727, when, in the absence of a male heir, the estates were left to a cousin, Giles Warbeck, of Plympton, on condition that the family names be preserved.
I pour myself another cup of half-cold tea. Wonder if it would be rude to leave the table to settle a bit closer to the fire. Beatrice is pretending to read a copy of a magazine called the Lady. She sings as she flips through the pages: a Noel Coward song, ‘I’ve Been to a Marvellous Party’.
In the seventeenth century, the family’s fortunes were boosted by the discovery of a seam of gold in the Sidbury valley. The initial find proved to be of disappointing quality, and operations became increasingly intensive for decreasing rewards. They were enough, however, to finance the additions to the house in the Jacobean, Queen Anne and Georgian eras, and it is assumed that, though mining only officially continued for some 175 years in the area, unofficial excavations were continuing to provide revenues for the family for some time after they were producing them for the exchequer.
I skip a bit. I can’t help it. It doesn’t make gripping narrative.
The current owner, Edmund, was born in 1930, and married Lady Mary Fulford-Ffawkes. Their heir, R
ufus, was born in 1976.
Not a mention of Tilly. Nice. I let the leaflet rest on the table for a minute while I think and drink my tea. So this is my new family. Over a thousand years, they’ve sat here in this valley, been born, got married, bought a bit more land, reproduced, died, got married, bought a bit more land again, reproduced. And that’s … well, that’s it, as far as I can see. A thousand undistinguished years of achieving doodly. No wonder they’re so proud of themselves. A real figjam of a family. The more I learn, the less I get how Rufus has come out so normal.
‘I danced with a man who danced with a gel who danced with thuh Pri-hince of Way-hales,’ warbles Beatrice.
I read on.
Great Hall: Part of the original structure of the house; hanging plaster ceiling by Nikolas Dowlet and scrolled oak panelling, 1567. Marble fireplace by Robert Adam, installed 1830s after the demolition of Tewkesbury March. Antlers over fireplace from a hart brought down by Edmund Callington-Wattestone during a hunt organised for Henry VIII. Pictures: Lettice Callington: school of Holbein; Caroline Callington-Warbeck-Wattestone: John Singer Sargent; The Hunting Party: after Stubbs; The Martyrdom of St Sebastian, Caravaggio.
It’s a real one. Blow me down.
Selected furniture: George IV plum pudding mahogany and rosewood crossbanded sofa table; green painted parcel-gilt sedan chair, early 19th century; a pietra dura table; pair of oak and pollard oak antler chairs circa 1850; set of dining chairs, Chippendale; carved mahogany …
She’s trying to bore me to death. This list is making my jaw crack. And there are another three pages to go. I think I’ve lost the circulation in my feet.
‘Would you like to sit closer to the fire, Mrs Wattestone?’ I ask Beatrice.
‘Heavens,’ she replies, ‘it’s like a sauna in here already. Have you come far?’
‘From Australia, originally.’
‘And are you staying nearby?’
‘I’m married to Rufus, Mrs Wattestone,’ I tell her again.
Beatrice shakes her head. ‘Rufus isn’t married.’
This is going to get a bit tedious.
‘You don’t mind if I …’ I gesture towards the fire.
She inclines her head graciously. ‘Please.’
There’s a pile of magazines by the couch, which has a greasy stain at head-height on its high back. I take the opportunity to drop the leaflet casually on to a little metal trivet thing that sits uselessly by the fireplace, look through the dusty magazines. More copies of the Lady (‘Jane Asher: Cake Decoration and Me’), something called Country Life (‘Antiques Special’) and something called Horse and Hound (‘Adventures with the Pytchley’). I give Horse and Hound a burl.
‘Do you enjoy country sports?’ enquires Beatrice.
I lower the magazine into my lap. ‘I’m not really sure,’ I tell her. ‘We’re more sea where I come from.’
‘Ah,’ she says, ‘so you’ll enjoy fishing.’
I shrug. I haven’t actually been out with a rod and line since the guy next to me pulled up a blue-ringed octopus and had to smash it apart with a boat hook while everyone else fled screaming across the rocks. ‘I guess,’ I reply noncommittally.
‘My late husband was a great fisherman,’ she informs me, fixing me with those shiny little button eyes. ‘We used to stock the moat with a thousand trout every season. A great sportsman.’
Doesn’t sound that much like sport to me, I think. More like the stately equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel. ‘That’s nice,’ I tell her. ‘They don’t do that any more, then?’
‘Not since the cracks started appearing,’ she informs me. ‘Too expensive, considering how many we lose to herons.’
I wait for a moment to see if she’s going to say anything more, then return to Horse and Hound. Turn to the small ads at the back. They read like the lonely hearts in Fruitcakes Monthly: ‘Schoolmaster, 11, sadly unable to compete due to tendon strain, but fit for hacking and schooling …’; ‘Handsome black stallion, 15.2, huge potential but not a novice ride. Would suit strong, experienced boy …’; ‘Rangy heavyweight, big jump, three seasons out. Only selling due to relocation …’
‘Oh, yes,’ burbles Beatrice, ‘a great sportsman. There wasn’t a day when he wasn’t out with the Heythrop or off with his gun. The servants used to have it written into their contracts that they didn’t have to eat pheasant more than three times a week.’
‘Wow.’ I try to sound impressed. ‘You must have been very proud of him.’
‘Oh, yes. The Duke of Beaufort used to say he was the best shot in the country.’
‘Golly.’
‘So do you hunt, in Australia?’
‘We don’t really have the right sort of foxes. Did you hunt?’
The beaming smile. ‘Oh, yes. Three times a week. From when I was six years old. My grandmother was one of the first woman MFHs. With the Dumfriesshire. I remember,’ she leans towards me, cups her mouth conspiratorially, ‘the day she died, we were all sent out, my brothers and I, to get us out of the house. It was a marvellous day: found immediately, and ran practically without a break. And we’d be galloping along on our ponies, and somebody would overtake us, and shout, “How’s your grandmother?” And we’d shout: “She’s dead!” Looking back, I suppose the modern psychiatrist would have a thing or two to say about that, but it was killingly funny at the time.’
And to show herself unaffected by the experience, she allows a peal of tinkling laughter to escape her, the sort of laugh that I thought that only Mary was able to accomplish.
I laugh too, to show that I’m not offended. Actually, I think it is pretty funny: the sort of story that my dad would appreciate, full on.
The laughter is cut off, just like that. Once again she tilts her head, hands crossed in her lap. ‘Of course, I dare say you don’t get too much hunting on a nurse’s salary.’ She pops me back into my box.
I don’t have the energy. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea or something, there, Mrs Wattestone?’
A little recoil as she corrects her deportment. ‘A lady doesn’t drink between breakfast and luncheon,’ she informs me.
I try a little tease. ‘Not even a drop of gin at elevenses?’
She gives me a look that leaves me in no doubt about the future of my medical support contract if I don’t watch my lip.
The fireplace door opens and a woman in a green T-shirt and maroon leggings enters, pauses for a moment, then, to my astonishment, actually bobs a curtsy and says: ‘Do you mind if I clear the table, now?’
I guess this is either the fabled Mrs Roberts, or Martin’s wife, Sharon, who I gather helps out in the house as well. Probably the former. Whatever, I’m relieved to see her. But Beatrice, like the old Edwardian she is, pretends she isn’t there at all.
I lay down my magazine, get to my feet. ‘Sure. I’ll give you a hand.’
She practically jumps out of her skin. I am just about to offer her a hand to shake, but think better of it when I see the way her eyes stand out on stalks. I make to walk towards the table, but she scurries into my path, blocks the route with a firmly turned shoulder.
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she tells me. None the less, I pick up the teapot and a couple of serving dishes as she stacks the plates, and follow her out of the room.
‘I’m Melody,’ I tell her as I pursue her down the passageway to the stairs. ‘I’m Rufus’s wife.’
She glances over her shoulder at me. ‘I know,’ she says.
‘You’re Mrs Roberts, right?’
She grunts in affirmation. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, and receive a noncommittal grunt in response.
We reach the kitchen, lay down our burdens on the table, and Mrs Roberts picks up a tea towel and wipes her hands. Looks at me in that way that I’m beginning to get used to, as though I’ve just sprouted a second head.
‘I’ve got to say, Mrs Roberts, I could really do with your help.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m here for,’ she says doubtfully, ‘but I’
m only kitchen staff, really, and a bit of cleaning here and there …’
‘I’m sure you can be a lot of help. I mean, it’s a bit daunting, this: I don’t know who anybody is, where anything goes, or what I’m meant to do half the time. I could really do with a helping hand.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, Mrs Wattestone,’ she says.
‘Yes, but you know how it is. A friendly face is always a big help. You can fill me in on the stuff I don’t know about. I feel, you know – as though I’m in a wood full of bear traps. Like everyone’s waiting for me to put a foot wrong. You know these people …’
She puts down the tea towel – she has gone quite red in the face – turns towards the sink and makes a big show of clattering about with the cutlery. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Wattestone, but I don’t think that that’s appropriate. I work here. I’m not a member of the family.’
‘I’m not asking you to be …’ I say. ‘I was just hoping that—’
‘Sorry,’ says Mrs Roberts, ‘but there it is. We have our ways, and I think everybody would be grateful if you’d respect that.’
‘But,’ I protest, ‘how am I supposed to know what these ways are if no one will—’
‘I suggest you ask your husband,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. It just doesn’t do, you know. You’re family, I’m staff. That’s how it is. It doesn’t do to get too …’
‘Too what?’
There’s an edge of frustration to her voice. I’m obviously doing it again, blundering through etiquette hell without a handbook.
‘Mrs Wattestone,’ she says, ‘we all have to know our place. I know you do it differently in Australia, but you’re not in Australia now. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get on.’ She starts feeding dishes into the sink, turning up the tap so that any further attempts at conversation will be drowned out.
I don’t know what to do, I really don’t. I stand behind her for a minute, trying to think of something to say, but I understand that it’s useless. I’m not just going to be rejected by the family, it seems: I’m going to be snubbed by the locals as well. I’ve walked into a minefield and I’m going to set off explosions wherever I put my feet. The back that’s turned to me is rigid, resolute.
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